


Eye For An Eye

by ravenousbee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor Deserves Happiness, Cults, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Father-Son Relationship, Human AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jericho (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, RA9 - Freeform, RK900 is Richard, Slow Burn, Some torture here and there, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, rating might change??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-07-13 14:59:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16020314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenousbee/pseuds/ravenousbee
Summary: In the midst of all the chaos in Detroit, no thanks to the cult of rA9, Connor and Richard are sent to Cyberlife to help with neutralizing the cult leader, Markus. Partnered up with Hank Anderson and Gavin Reed, not everything goes as planned, and the brothers find themselves doubting their objectives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do I have 5 other WIPs that I'm working on? yes  
> Is one of them published and in need of an update? yes  
> Did I just add another to the list of my miseries? ...............yes.
> 
> I had this idea late at night and after sharing it with a few members in the writing server and RK1K server on discord it got some positive feedback and thanks to them, the idea developed a bit more as well - So thanks, those who helped out with this (':
> 
> Updates aren't promised to be scheduled, but I'm not letting go of these until I finish it lsdifjlsdfji
> 
> Thanks for reading! Reporting errors/grammatical or dictation would help me out a l o t.  
> Enjoy!

Darkness.

Blindfolded.

A rough piece of cloth against his lips.

Something… someone, moves, walks around, possible heels hitting the floor every time they take a step. The sound of the shoes contacting the floor echoes through the room he’s in. Suggesting that around him, there’s not much furniture. That, or his room is situated in a long hallway.

He cautiously moves his feet around, and hisses at the burning sensation. Ropes, around his ankles. They’re naked, and the rope’s harshly rubbing against the already sensitive pale skin. His hands are in a similar situation. There’s something cold and metallic covering his hands, as well. Ah, handcuffs. Has he been captured by Cyberlife?

Perhaps, _perhaps_ they’ve finally figured his intentions.

He’s slightly panting, hands aching for a familiar coin to move around his knuckles.

The sound gets closer, until he can _feel_ the breath of the person caress his locks. They seems stressed judging by the rapidness of their breathing. That, or just purely enraged.

The latter seems more likely.

Boney, cold fingers reach for the piece of cloth covering his eyes, pulling it off and smiling at him.

Of course, it’s no other than the _fascinating_ genius of their time, Elijah Kamski. Bright eyes bore into his dark ones, and Connor _attempts_ at spitting into the man’s face, however, unfortunate as he is, the rag blocking his mouth keeps him from doing so.

“Connor… Oh, Connor. That was quite a foolish move, wasn’t it?”

He hates this voice. _God_ , the most unsettling, annoying voice on this planet. Poor vocal chords were wasted on a piece of garbage. He only manages to glare, however failing at doing so the way he wanted. The light in the room is too goddamn bright for his eyes.

“Adorable, you look like a kicked dog, Connor.”

He speaks.

Voice is too muffled, and in response, Kamski only grins wider. The man and his _idiotic_ ponytail move away from him, and out of the room. A few moments later, more lights turn on in the room, causing the already-blinded boy inside to groan, closing his eyes.

A few shuffling and metal-against-metal sounds echoing through the halls later, Kamski walks back in, a chair in his hands. He places in front of Connor, sitting so that his front is facing the back of his chair. Their faces are only inches apart, and Kamski’s smile seems even more unsettling and disturbing from such distance.

“That little trick you and your old guy pulled, that wasn’t very smart, Connor. Amanda is _quite_ disappointed.”

Connor can only whine in response, shifting his legs to see if he could score in a kick against Kamski’s, instead. Despite his relentless efforts, he fails to succeed. Well. Shit.

Elijah doesn’t seem fazed by his ‘threats’, if you would call them so, at all. He’s rather _amused_ by this whole situation and it only manages to make Connor feel sicker than he already does. Who knows? Maybe this could be an opportunity for him to paint Kamski in vomit.

Hah, that’s a pleasant yet disgusting, nevertheless, mental image.

For a few minutes, Kamski stares into his eyes and Connor stares at Kamski stubbornly. The billionaire sighs, hands reaching up to Connor’s mouth. A closer look, and he can witness washed away black nail polish painting the man’s hands.

The man lets out another sigh as he removes the rag, letting the younger of the two gasp for fresh air. Fresh air tinted with Kamski’s mint toothbrush, if he’s not completely wrong.

 _God_ , why did he ever agree to this?

“Well, won’t you talk for a bit? Kinda waiting on your _seductive_ voice, Connor.”

He sneers. Kamski’s referencing Richard. Mature of him. Mature of Richard, too, for ever inventing that insult. He opens his mouth, voice raspy and unintelligible. “That’s not quite professional now, is it mister Kamski?”

“What that is _not_ , professional, is _backstabbing_ the only people who cared for your useless ass.” Kamski snaps, and Connor would be lying if it didn’t _slightly_ sting. Although, he’s smart enough to grin at Elijah in return, only feeding the man’s anger. “You can’t even smile. Fucking failure.” Elijah mutters, and Connor guesses he assumed Connor wouldn’t hear it.

Well. His loss. ... Or Connor’s.

“Standing for what’s right is, indeed, professional, mister Kamski. Both morally, and ethically.”

“And you suddenly remember to care about ethics and morals, after all the blood you’ve shed?”

“It’s never late for redemption.”

“It’s always too late for redemption. You’re stupid. God, you’re an _idiot_.”

“Idiocy is a strength in our society nowadays, mister Kamski.”

“Since when, Connor? Idiocy _is_ the reason you’re here. Reason why I’m here. Reason why there’s a cult worshipping a _myth_ , out there.”

“That would be being delusional. I can’t disagree with you. They’re delusional. But their delusions and illusions are quite more fair and more justified than your _visions_ , for Detroit. Your images are like an illness. Like a virus that _eats_ away at this city’s potential.”

“All the ideas of a virus spread like epidemics. Is the desire to see my town, free of all myths and useless no-brainers, a contagious disease?”

“I said exactly that a moment ago, mister Kamski. This isn’t a philosophical conversation. This is you, being judged or your actions.”

Kamski laughs. It’s unsettling, it’s unlikable. It’s detestable.

“That old man of yours, did you really choose him over Amanda? That’s quite disappointing Connor, I thought we had your loyalty for all we’ve done for you.”

“For breaking my mind? For the drugs she had me use? For making a machine off of me? I apologize, mister Kamski. That’s not the case. If anything, I _despise you two_.”

Kamski _scowls_ . Connor feels a sharp pain in his right shoulder, a loud groan escaping through his gritted teeth. He isn’t surprised to feel the warm, _warm_ blood start moving down his arms. Of course Elijah uses a knife on him.

“Ungrateful. What a pity. You were quite a fascinating person to have around. You and Richard, I had high hopes for you both.” He pauses, looking at his bloodied knife thoughtfully. “Of course, not all hope is lost within Richard. Perhaps I could get something out of him…”

He’s bluffing and Connor _knows_ that. Still doesn’t keep his heart rate from speeding up, and it certainly doesn’t do his asthma any favor as he starts gasping, trying to get his stress under control.

“See? Richard would never panic over you.” Kamski adds with a sly smile, settling back on his chair. The light above them flickers.

“Tell me, Connor. Tell me a… tell me a story.”

Through his pain and shallow breaths, Connor tilts his head, eyes analyzing Elijah’s wild almost no interest, rather obligation.

“Are you currently under the influence of red ice, mister Kamski?”

 _Mister Kamski_ smiles. “That’s not of your concern, now, is it? Unless your left shoulder needs to come in contact with my knife.”

“My left shoulder is quite alright, thank you for your concern.”

Elijah drops his head, his disturbing laughter reaching Connor’s ears again. A bit too loud, for the distance between them, however Connor remains smart and quiet about it.

“Tell me everything.”

Elijah’s looking deep into his soul. A gaze Connor feared, fears, and perhaps will fear in the darkest of nights in his lonely room in the attic of Amanda’s house. Well, perhaps Amanda wouldn’t allow him back in the house after all this ruckus.

A carton box would do, too.

Swallowing, Connor attempts to clear his sore throat, and trying to ignore the dried blood on his white, _white_ shirt.

Well, it _was_ his favorite shirt. Now they just owe him a new one.

With the illusion of freedom in his mind, Connor shifts in his seat, hissing at the pain in his ankles and sitting straight against the protests of his hurting back.

“State your repot, RK800.”

_Ah, smart._

He winces, pursing his lips upon hearing the name. “...What do you want to know?”

Oh how much he hates how his voice sounds. Rasped, pained, and _weak_ . Amanda’s possibly _outraged_ , somewhere nearby. Maybe she’s even behind the rusty, red doors of this strange cell. He’s at least somewhat grateful for Kamski not allowing her inside, _if_ she’s truly outside.

A look around the room proves the lack of cameras and recording devices. A glance at Kamski’s pockets, and he sees no bulge of a phone. Well, Kamski _could_ have have a microchip somewhere on that neat suit of his, or inside that stupid pocket watch hanging from his pockets. Not that it matters, anymore. It’ll all be over in a few… hours, days?

No one would care about what Connor says in this room. Not that _he_ can stop himself from talking, anyways. Elijah’s mind knows Connor’s well enough to break him, wreck him, until he’s nothing but a mess of the truth.

So he co-operates, and when Kamski’s fingers _ever so gently_ lift his chin, he tries to not flinch away and instead, stares fondly at Kamski.

“Everything, Connor. _Everything._ ”

“Everything…?” He frowns. “I thought you’d be only interested in the ending, mister Kamski.”

“Life is not so much about beginnings and endings as it is about going on and on and on. It is about muddling through the middle. And that’s what I’m interested in.”

The corner of his lips quirk up. “Anna Quindlen. Amanda’s favorite.”

“Glad to see your brain hasn’t abandoned us, yet.” He pauses. “You can come back, Connor. We’ll forgive you.” Elijah’s tone is sweet. Comforting, and Connor can’t deny the gravitation he’s sensing. Yet he resists. This trick is by far, too old to take effect on him.

“Shouldn’t we speak about the beginning, mister Kamski?”

Elijah’s face tenses. The disappointment he’s feeling towards Connor is contagious, and soon he too feels slightly unfulfilled by the conversation.

“Go ahead. Entertain me with your concoctions.”

“I assure you, you won’t be hearing anything other than the truth, mister Kamski.”

Elijah frowns.

“Quit wasting time. Report. Now.”

Connor swallows, and bites his lip. “Everything started when Amanda sent me to the operation base. I had only met you five times, by that time. And we never met again until today. Amanda had already told Mr. Fowler about my arrival, so I didn’t experience any issues finding the base, and entering it. Mr. Fowler introduced me to my new partner, Mr. Anderson. I think, he had said something along the lines of me, acting as his partner in—

* * *

 

“—the field, Hank.” Jeffrey says, eyes focused determinedly on the few pieces of paper containing Connor’s information without glancing at Hank’s… well, _fury_ would be a word that underestimates the potentials that Hank’s anger holds.  
“The _fuck,_ Jeffrey? I thought we talked about this shit—” Hank marches forward, hand slamming loudly against the table’s surface. “I, don’t, work, well, with, someone else. Specifically this newbie—what in the absolute shithole is that Kamski thinking? Sending a kid to the field?”

Connor tries not to be offended.

Although, it seems worth mentioning for how long he’s been under training. Richard squirms behind him, expression as stoic as ever, but the tight grip on Connor’s sleeves says otherwise.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been under training since I was 13 years old, Mr. Anderson. My brother joined when he was 16, however, fortunately he doesn’t have to work with you. But I assure you, my fourteen years of experience under the care of Amanda Stern is promising.” He pauses.

“Amanda said I am almost as capable as you are, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps even more capable, considering my age, and my mental status. I am fully aware of your… issues.”

Well, issues is putting it too lightly. Hank lost his son to a car crash three years ago, midst of a protest that the cultists were having in the streets. As motivating as it can be for their case and their investigation, the mental instability of Hank worries him.

It’s not… professional. And the burning rage in Hank’s eyes when he looks at Connor, after saying all that, is perhaps a scenery he’ll _never_ , forget.

“Listen here, asshole—”

“—Hank, _stop_ —”

Calloused hands reach for his perfectly ironed shirt, crumpling it with no care.

Connor likes that shirt. That simple action would cause hostility between him and Hank.

“— _Hank_ . I’m _ordering_ you—”

“—If it was up to me—”

“—to _stop_ , or—”

“—Sir, please take your hands aw—”

“—I’d kick the lot of you—”

“—Let go of my broth—”

“—in front of one of those _heartless monsters_ , bastard.” Hank finishes, Jeffrey’s body blocking him from causing anymore damage to to Connor’s outfit. Or, bring any harm to Connor himself. Richard behind him has a protective grip on his shoulders, and his eyes are coldly focused on Hank.

Jeffrey manages to push Hank away from the two of them, whispering uselessly at the old man, so that he would listen.

Hank Anderson is a fifty-three years old man, started working for Cyberlife from the early age of twenty-seven. He was, to this day, the youngest employee to be hired. Connor is about to change that, and if Richard manages to get into the field in the following months, he will. So that hostility could be towards someone being superior than Anderson.

“For _fuck’s_ sake, Jeffrey, you know I don’t do well with partners.” Hank scoffs, brushing Jeffrey’s hands off of himself. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Hank, higher-ups. Kamski recommended these two. Specially the younger one. He’s been under training for more than _we_ were, not to mention _Stern_ trained them.” He whispers, as if the name isn’t allowed to be said.

Well, their fear of Amanda is logical. Even Richard fears the professeur.

Not that Connor does. He’s only grateful towards her.

...At least, he believes so.

“I assure you, Mr. Anderson, that I mean no harm. I only demand a peaceful partnership so that we can neutralize the cult.”

“ _Neutralize._ What’s this, a fucking machine?”

“I _assure_ you that I’m not a, ‘Fucking machine’, as you put it.” Connor says, irritation leaking into his voice. He’s being unprofessional, but so is Hank. Jeffrey only sighs, dropping on his chair and watching the trio in his office. “You two, have five minutes to get used to each other’s disgusting faces. And you,” He pauses, pointedly looking at Richard.  His brother straightens, acknowledging Fowler with a nod.

“You stay with Reed for the while. He’s of a lower rank, he can show you around and you two can analyze the clues we get here. That’s until Madame Stern says you’re ready or—whatever the fuck she meant when she said you’re not done. Now get the fuck out of my office. This place isn’t a goddamn daycare.”

A glare at Hank, an affirmative nod at Fowler and Connor twists the handle of the office door, stepping out to once again greet a swarm of young men and women in uniforms, all wearing a white badge on their jackets, a trace of neon covering their sleeves.

The office is too white and plain, for an underground, secret organization. Everything’s where it should be, with guards threateningly sporting guns, and each table not an inch farther from another. A true factory, a hidden slavery.

But Connor doesn’t mind it.

It treats his OCD with much more kindness than _Richard_ ever has and that says a lot.

Looking around, he notices Hank stomping his way through the crowd and dropping onto a chair, with an empty desk next to him. The label ‘ANDERSON’ shines brightly on his desk with neon lights. The empty desk doesn’t have a label, so Connor gladly marches up to it, and sits in the desk.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see that Richard sits on a chair in front of them, next to a young man who’s sipping a cup of coffee.

“You’re the new guy?”

“Richard Stern, sir.”

“Stern? What the fuck, did ‘Manda send you?”

Richard only nods in response. The man barks out a laugh. On his desk, ‘REED’ flashes. So that’s Richard’s new partner. “Huh. Thought Elijah was done with her shit, guess his head’s still far up in his ass. Listen here,” Reed leans over, getting closer to Richard.

“We do as I say, we do as I do. We don’t do what I _wouldn’t_ do. Got it?”

“...Yes, Mr. Reed.”

“Good. Now get your ass up and make me some coffee, dipshit.”

Richard looks _enraged_. Furious, yet his brother doesn’t speak a word. Just stands up and walks up to a coffee machine situated in what Connor assumes as the break room.

Well, seemingly everyone in this place is an asshole. With a sigh, he turns towards Hank, who now is trying so hard to seem occupied with a tablet in his hands. Problem is, the tablet’s screen is dark.

Before speaking, he takes a look at the man. There’s a dead bonsai on his desk, a few pictures of the known leaders of the cult, with red circles around their heads. ‘ _Fake, Unreal_ ’ is written all over the photographs with the same red marker.

Noticeably, there are a few strands of short, brown and white hair all over his black suit. Did he own a dog?

Clearing his throat, he attempts at gaining the older man’s interest. “Mr. Anderson, do you happen to own a dog?”

Hank seems… disturbed.

“How the fuck do you know that?”

“Dog hair. On your jacket.”

Hank scoffs.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Connor offers a smile. The expression on Hank’s face tells him that he has yet to be successful at smiling.

“What breed is he? What’s his name?”

“...Why the fuck do you wanna know that? Thought you were here to _solve_ an investigation, not write a report on my fucking dog.”

The younger of the duo doesn’t reply, and instead leans back in his chair, eyes focused on anything but his partner. Hank sighs, he himself leaning back. “Sumo.”

Connor looks up.

“A Saint Bernard. Have had him for… six? Seven years?”

“I like dogs.” He blurts out, irrationally. Unprofessionally, he’s not supposed to discuss what’s not required for the investigation.

“Good for you. I don’t give a damn.” Hank grunts, turning his back at Connor to focus on the files on his desk. Well, to _pretend_ he’s focusing on the files. Connor knows better. With a sigh, he stands up, heading over to Hank’s desk and kneeling down in front of him. “Mr. Anderson, as much as you hate to be working on this matter with me, I’d like for it to be over. I require your cooperation for this matter, so _please_ , only bear with me for a while longer. I promise that I’ll…” He pauses, waiting for a reaction from Hank.

The old man only frowns farther more, eyes looking at anything but Connor himself. “...Try to get this case done as quickly as possible.” Hank keeps quiet, not replying to Connor, not even sparing a glance at the younger recruit. Feeling irritated, Connor stands up, looking down at the man.

Richard, now having handed a cup of coffee to his partner, looks at him from his desk, perhaps alarmingly. “If you feel incapable of going onto this case with me, which I suppose you _may_ be, I suggest you quit this case and hand it over to someone else, Mr. Anderson.”

Hank finally snaps.

Standing from his chair, rage in his eyes, the hands reach out to his collar, loosening his tie and pinning him to a wall nearby. Ah, Deja vu. Specifically, deja vu _il y a une heure_. For the second time in that hour. Working with Hank is proving to be more than just difficult.

“Listen up, fucker— _I’m_ your superior. Behave your ass or you’ll get it handed to you.” Hank growls, breath hitting Connor’s face. Alcohol, and nicotine. Fantastic, his partner is also an alcoholic, and potential cigarette smoker.

Amanda never allowed them to smoke. Insisted that agents like them had to strictly follow a scheduled, planned life. That included their drug, medicine, and nutrient intakes.

Well, her ‘schedule’ didn’t stop her from hooking them up on Thirium, Connor thinks.

“So either you’ll do as _I_ say, or we’re going to have some problems. Understood?”

“Understood, Mr. Anderson. I’ll take that as your affirmative answer to working on this case.” Hank lets go of him, throwing him towards the chair nearby.

Stumbling, Connor walks towards his own desk and settles in his chair, ignoring the glare his brother is giving him.

“Fucking rookies.”

“I have more experience than you, Mr. Anderson.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up.”

* * *

 

“Interesting—your interactions weren’t so intimate as first, were they?” Elijah says, face devoid of any emotion other than a look a perpetrator would give its prey.

“Our first interaction was disturbed by Mr. Anderon’s previous experiences with partners— _and_ affected by the loss of his son.” Connor pauses, wincing as the pain in his shoulder returns. “But, nothing can destroy the bond we share now.”

“Even death?”

Kamski’s bluffing. _Hah_ , Connor _knows_ he’s bluffing. They wouldn’t get rid of Hank that easily.

...Would they?

“...Even death, mister Kamski.”

Elijah doesn’t speak a word as he stands up from his chair, circling Connor and standing behind him, hands placed on Connor’s back. Slowly, they start moving, down and settling by Connor’s hips before coming back up and ever so caringly settle on his shoulders.

Connor shivers under his touch.

His shoulder aches.

“Don’t you miss them, Connor?”

No. He doesn’t.

“Chloe misses you.”

...He does. He misses Chloe. He even misses Amanda. No matter how much he tries to deny it, Amanda found them at a desperate time. Amanda _saved_ them, gave them shelter, and Elijah gave them Chloe.

How _could_ he not miss them?

While Amanda would take from them, their independency, the memories of their family, the few friends they had found during their trainings, Elijah would give them. Elijah gave them Chloe, gave him Hank, gave Richard Gavin.

All Amanda ever gave them was pain, ache and bruises.

Well, and Thirium.

The only consistency in their lives was Thirium.

“...I miss them. I miss them, Amanda, Chloe. That doesn’t make the betrayal hurt less.”

The hands caress his back, circular motions that should be calming, but it only unsettles Connor even more. Elijah’s good at what he does. He knows how to manipulate, and Connor can’t deny the trap he’s stepped in.

“ _We_ miss you.”

“You weren’t even with us there.” He protest. “We only saw you five times. And in each of them you managed to hurt us.”

“The pain helped you grow.”

“The pain _broke_ us.”

The hands stop, tightly gripping on his shoulders and Connor can’t help the whine that escapes him when the stab wound is pressured.

“The drugs made you stronger, Connor.”

“They only weakened us.” He rasps, trying not to sound vulnerable as Kamski digs into his wound.

For a few seconds—that felt like _years_ —Elijah doesn’t move, nails still playing with the injury. He suddenly lets go, walks back in front of connor and brushes the few strands out of his face, staring at his eyes.

“We love you.”

They don’t.

“ _I_ love you.”

He doesn’t.

So Connor just stares back, expressionless, emotionless. Amanda taught him how to hide his feelings, and so he does.

Elijah, unsatisfied with his reaction, settles back onto his chair and traces its shape with his index.

“Go on, then, Connor. Continue on with the report. What was your first mission?”

“A believer who had yet to offer his sacrifice. His name was Daniel Phillips.”

Raising an eyebrow, Elijah prompts him to continue on.

“He thought that his adoptive family was treating him unfairly compared to their biological daughter, Emma Phillips. Therefore, he attempted to intimidate them, by threatening to throwing Emma off the tower.”

“And? Intimidate them, for what?”

“For them to give him enough money to be able to find Jericho, and therefore join the cult.”

“And how did _that_ go?”

“He managed to murder the father. The mother however, escaped and contacted the police, which prompted Mr. Perkins to call _us_ in, for the case.”

“Did he believe in rA9?”

“Perhaps he did. Perhaps he did not.”

Elijah laughs. A sickening sound that makes his gut twist. He leans closer to Connor, icy blue eyes demanding.

“This is all… quite fascinating, honestly. Connor. How did the case go?”

Frowning, he looks away. Daniel’s case wasn’t one of their most successful one—well, at least from the cases they had _attempted_ to be successful in. To this day he still feels regret over what had happened.

“It happened the day after I had joined. Hank and I were called to the area after the police had contacted Mr. Perkins.”

Elijah smiles.

“Entertain me, Connor.”

And entertain he does.


	2. II

“Daniel Phillips? As in,  _ the _ Phillips?”

“Yeah, those rich bastards in that tower.”

“Do you have something against them, Mr. Anderson?”

“I have something against  _ anyone _ in this fucking world.”

Well, as expected from  _ Hank Anderson _ . This man’s profile is just looking uglier and uglier as their partnership goes on.

Connor chooses to not to respond to that, and instead focuses on the case at hand. “Why exactly are we being called to the scene? Didn’t the mother contact the police?”

“And the police contacted the government ‘cause that asshole is saying something about rA9. Perkins decided to call us up.” Hank pauses. “ _ That fucking cocksucker _ .” He mumbles, perhaps thinking Connor wouldn’t be able to hear him. 

Shaking his head with slight frustration, he switches back to discussing the case at hand. “What are we going to do?”

“Wouldn’t your professional ass know about that?”

“Mr. Anderson, you’re my superior. I need to know your input before deciding what to do.”

“...Oh you’re gonna do what you want in the end, aren’t ya?” Hank scoffs. “Talk to the bastard and keep him from killing the girl. Then we’ll get rid of him as soon as he lets the girl go.”

“That’s plausible. Are you sure about killing him? We might get some useful information from him.”

“He doesn’t even  _ know _ the cult properly. He just believes in that shit.” 

“Alright. I’m glad to say our preferred methods of solving this situation are quite the same.” 

“What an honor.”

Sarcasm, a firm trait in Hank Anderson’s personality. For a few moments he wishes he was back in the HQ, with Richard—then again,  _ Amanda  _ had tasked him with this mission. There is no use to daydreaming.

It takes a while for the car to reach their destination, considering how they were trying to remain undercover and act like normal civilians, while also heading towards a building with a kid and a young man about to jump off of it.

Slightly unsettled and distressed, Connor takes out a quarter and fiddles around with it, rolling it on his knuckles. Hank doesn’t seem to notice it until they’re inside the elevator, climbing seventy floors to reach the scene. 

“The fuck are you doin’?”

“Calibrating, Mr. Anderson.”

“ _ Calibrate _ ? What, you a machine or somethin’? Put that thing away.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson. This is required for maximum efficiency. I apologize if it unsettles you.”

The elevator doors open, and Connor’s more than happy to jump out, no longer in a closed space with Hank. A look around the living room shows a dead body of a man, possibly around 40, shot, and put up against the couch. 

There are guards next to the balcony, and the gunshot sounds conclude that their criminal,  _ Daniel _ , is standing in there, possibly have shot a few officers already.

“Where’s the mother?” 

The closest guard to them looks at the duo through his dark helmet. “She was escorted away. She was having a panic attack and our medics took her out.”

Hank looks at him, raising his eyebrows. “So, you gonna go talk to him?”

“I’d rather collect a few clues before negotiating with him.”

“And then?”

Connor pauses. A quick calculation, and he estimates a forty percent chance of success, as of now. “We have a forty percent chance of success. If I gather more clues, that would increase. _ If _ I manage to calm him down, I’m asking for you to set a few snipers on a higher floor, so that they can shoot him as soon as he lets go of Emma.”

Hank winces. “Shoot him? He’s probably only twenty-fucking-something, Connor.”

“He’s attempting to murder a nine years old girl. Not to mention having already murdered her father, and traumatized her mother.” 

It’s safe to say Hank doesn’t look convinced, but he nods nevertheless, leaning against a wall. “I’ll hit it up with Allen as soon as you go inside.” With a nod, Connor walks away and towards the corpse of the father, kneeling next to it. There’s a piece of paper in his hand, covered in blood. Two gunshots, one in his shoulder and one in his abdomen.

Quickly putting on a pair of gloves, he cautiously picks the paper up. The heading states “Adoption Form”, with Emma’s father signature and name on it. A girl, age 12 from Detroit’s Adoption Center. Apparently Mr. Phillips intended to adopt another girl. 

Daniel was adopted, as well. Maybe it erupted envy, making him feel like being replaced.

Leaving the corpse, he begins marching around the house, looking at Emma’s room. There’s a photograph of Daniel and Emma together on the table, with a headphone next to it, loudly playing music, suggesting that perhaps Emma had not heard the gunshots. There’s also an empty gun case in the parents’ room, concluding this is the gun that Daniel holds right now.

There’s a dead body of a policeman close to the kitchen, shot by Daniel in his heart. His gun is a few meters away from the corpse. With hesitation, Connor picks it up, putting it in his back pocket.

Only if necessary.

Only.

Then again, Daniel has murdered two persons already. Perhaps one more if he managed to, in the balcony. It wouldn’t be  _ morally  _ wrong to kill him.

Would it?

Amanda always advised him against morals, didn’t she? 

Shaking his head, he pulls out his quarter, rolling it on his knuckles to focus. Morals don’t matter. Completing the mission, and therefore saving Emma is all that matters.

Walking back the balcony entrance, having enough clues to go on with, Connor stands in front of the balcony. Next to him, on the wall, the TV’s broadcasting the event, cameras all focused on Daniel and Emma. 

The two SWAT members blocking the balcony move aside, opening the way for Connor to go through. Taking a deep breath, he pushes the curtains away, stepping outside and feeling the cold wind of Detroit winters hit h—

A gunshot can be heard, and a white flash of pain takes over his brain. A look at his left arm, and he can already feel the warmth of the blood soaking through his uniform, painting it red.

Trying to ignore the pain, he looks back up at Daniel.

Daniel is… quite young. Blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin with tears streaming down his face, a strange rage in his eyes. Emma’s trembling—most definitely  _ terrified _ , in his arms, crying and screaming for help, for Daniel to let her go.

Daniel seems quite scared himself. He doesn’t... really intend on doing this.

Connor takes a deep breath, left hand grasping his right arm tightly to lessen the pain and ease the flow of blood.

“Hi Daniel—”  _ Ouch, it hurts _ . “My name is Connor.”

“How do you k-know my name?”

“I know a lot of things about you, Daniel— I’ve come to—”  _ Murder you? _ “—get you out of this.”

A step forward. Slowly, and not too fast.

“I’ve come to get you out of  _ here _ , Daniel.”

“You’re  _ lying _ . You’re  _ all  _ lying.”

Stop. Let the suspect calm down. 

“I’m not here to harm you, Daniel. I just need both you and Emma to be  _ safe _ .”

Daniel doesn’t respond, and instead his eyes roam around Connor’s body.

“Are you armed?”

Well, he  _ is _ . But Daniel doesn’t have to know that, does he?

“No. I came unarmed.”

“Liar! I  _ know _ you’re armed!”

Take a deep breath.

“I’m not, Daniel. I came here  _ unarmed _ .” He pauses, waiting for Daniel to respond but he only tightens his grip on the gun, aiming at Connor. “It’s normal for you to feel this way, Daniel.” He starts again, taking slow, small steps. 

“They were bringing in a new child, and maybe you thought you were being replaced. You were jealous. Am I correct?”

Daniel looks down, shaking his head rapidly. “I wasn’t enough—I was  _ never enough! _ ” He’s more unsettled, shouting and holding Emma tighter, causing the little girl to cry even harder. “I thought— I thought that if I joined the cult, I could be free. That’s what he promised. He promised us  _ freedom _ .”

“Who did, Daniel?”

The boy shakes his head, mouth shut. Connor frowns, and decides to instead check up on Emma. The girl’s bleeding from a wound on her knee, and one of her shoes are missing. There’s smeared blood on her face, but it’s obvious that it’s not hers and perhaps her father’s.

“Are you alright, Emma?”

“Please—I don’t wanna die,  _ I don’t wanna die _ .” 

“It’s gonna be alright, Emma. You and Daniel are  _ both  _ going to be alright.” 

Let the suspect trust you. Let him think you trust him, and are willing to help him. “Let the little girl go, Daniel. We can get out of this together—the three of us.” He says, close enough to Daniel to offer his hand and ask for the gun.

Daniel refuses to hand in the gun. “I… I want a car. A car, and I’ll… I’ll go to the church. Then I’ll let her go. rA9 will save me, rA9 will save me and I’ll save her in return.” 

“That isn’t possible, Daniel.”

“Why? Why isn’t it  _ possible _ ? 

“We can’t let Emma stay with you.” He pauses. For a moment, it seems like a good idea to conform to Daniel’s ‘conditions’, with their own. Promising him the car only if he lets go of Emma. Then,  _ maybe  _ they can find the church that the cult apparently resides in.

Then again, Daniel seems  _ clueless _ . Like a boy who’s just read an article online about rA9 and decided it was real enough to save him.

“You can’t go to the cult as well, Daniel. Just let go of Emma, and  _ everything  _ will be alright.”

Daniel seems to lower his gun, yet not handing it to Connor as he looks up at him once again, looking slightly more trusting and slightly stabler. “Are they going to kill me?”

“We’re  _ just  _ going to talk, Daniel. I  _ promise _ , they won’t hurt you. I will protect you.”

Absolute silence. Other than the quiet sobs of the terrified girl.

“ _ You just have to trust me. _ ” He says, more quietly, both hands reaching out to Daniel.

Daniel doesn’t respond. Instead, he kneels down, putting Emma on the ground and wiping her tears, head hanging low. Hesitantly, and evidently scared, Emma runs away, letting herself drop down next to the pool in the balcony, wrapping her arms around herself.

When Connor looks away from Emma, Daniel is looking at him. Eyes focused on him, filled with hope and  _ guilt _ . Slightly demanding, as well.

Ah.

He’s demanding the freedom Connor promised him.

Connor looks away.

His hand moves upward, at where he suspects the sniper would be. Daniel watches him carefully, confusion creeping onto his face.

“Conno—?”

Before he can finish his name, a bullet hits his arm, throwing him off-balance as he lets out a scream in pain. Another bullet comes a moment later, aimed for his thigh,  causing the boy to drop on his knees, bleeding out and  _ screaming. _

Daniel stares into his eyes, with whatever strength that he had left.

_ Please don’t say anything _ .

“You…”

Connor shivers.

“ _ You lied to me, Connor. _ ”

Everything’s happening too fast for him to process it.

Daniel’s head hits the ground as his body goes still, lifeless, and bleeding out like a slaughtered animal. 

His hands ache for the familiar grip of a quarter as he takes a step back, turning on his heels to see Hank, his features equally as traumatized as Connor’s. The old man’s gaze isn’t leaving the corpse, mouth hanging open with white mist flowing out of it.

Connor reaches into his pocket, pulling out the gun and offering it to hank, eyes refusing to meet the older one’s.

Hank shakes his head, grabbing the gun with a grunt. 

“We could’ve kept him alive.”

They could. But he should eliminate all of his targets.

“The only justified way to end it was to kill him.” Connor replies, voice betraying his stoic expression. 

It’s only the first day of his new, and  _ first _ job, and he’s already being conflicted by his emotions. He takes a step towards the ledge, and over Daniel’s body. The height  _ terrifies _ him, causing him to stumble back, feeling nauseous and dizzy. 

Hank’s hands grab his arms, roughly pulling him aside.

“That’s bullshit. That’s  _ bullshit _ and you know it, kid.” 

This time, he stays quiet. Hank mumbles a few curses and looks away, hands gripping on the edge of his heavy coat. 

“Let’s get the fuck outta here. We got a report, and your brother’s got  _ to  _ report.”

“...Yes, Mr. Anderson.” 

Without another look at the corpse that  _ he _ killed, he follows Hank, probably back to the HQ.

* * *

 

“So you killed a guy, huh? Did it feel good?”

Connor tilts his head, ignoring the slight pain in his blood-covered shoulder. “I didn’t kill him. However I  _ did _ have my share in his death.”

Pursing his lips after a quick pause, he continues. “I don’t regret it. Daniel had still killed a man, hurt his adoptive sister, and caused Mrs. Phillips to be mentally traumatized. Not to mention the mental effect he left on the little girl.”

Kamski only laughs, white teeth flashing. “So? That makes it any better? New flash,  _ Con _ .” He stands up, towering over Connor.

“Murder’s still murder.”

“I’m glad to see you’re finally  _ feeling _ taller than me, even if it’s only temporary.” 

A blow to the head is all he gets in response. Well, it  _ was _ worth it. He has the guts to smirk when he raises his head to look back at Kamski again. Elijah doesn’t look so amused, frowning at him instead. 

“Cocky bastard—We’ll see how  _ you _ ’ll like it when I torture your friends in front of your own eyes.” He mutters, hands clenched into fists by his side. He takes a few deep breaths, and after a few moment, it looks like he’s once again the ever-so-cheery Elijah Kamski, with a never-faltering smile. 

“How was your brother doing, while you were out?”

“For all I know, they had been busy trying to figure out a bunch of clues while, of course, your broth—”

“ _ Adopted, _ brother.”

“—er, was being quite the nice guy. Apparently, demanding coffee with the most graceful of words. Like Di—”

* * *

 

“—pshit,  _ hey _ , dipshit!” 

Richard looks up from his desk, frowning as he observes his partner. Gavin Reed, one of the most unpleasant persons in this headquarter so far. Well, other than Hank Anderson, but fortunately for him, Connor had to deal with that.

“Yes, Mr. Reed?” 

“I want a coffee.”

“You just had one thirty minutes ago.”

“Did you hear what I  _ just _ said, you prick?”

Richard pouts. Well, add Gavin Reed to the list of the people he’ll shoot, if given the opportunity. “I’m not deaf, Mr. Reed. But perhaps you should tone down the caffeine intake. It’s not healthy for a man your age to be addicted.”

“Okay, listen here.” Gavin stands up, leaning over his desk with his face close to Richard. His breath reeks of both  _ coffee _ and for some reason, cigarettes. “When I ask you for something, you go do exactly that, the way I want it,  _ when _ I want it. That clear?”

“...Crystal, Mr. Reed.”

“Good to know you’re not brain-dead yet.” Gavin leans away, eyes still staring down at him. “Now, go get me a coffee, dipshit.”

Richard doesn’t move, holding Gavin’s gaze. Who  _ does _ this man think he is? 

Gavin doesn’t say anything for a few moments before suddenly  _ shouting _ “Get a move on!”

A few heads turn, staring at Gavin and Richard with wide-eyes. Some whisper, and that’s all Richard needs to hear before realizing not much employees disobey the  _ mighty _ Gavin Reed.

“No, Mr. Reed.” 

Gavin’s eyebrows furrow, eyes widening slightly. 

“With all due respect, you’re a grown man who  _ can _ , take care of himself and therefore make his own coffee. I’m sure your mother would be proud to hear you managed to get yourself your daily  _ over _ -dosage of caffeine.”

Gavin’s hands are fisted by his sides, and his breathing picks up its pace slightly.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d rather do some actual work, instead of slacking and showing how much of an asshole I  _ can _ be to the other employees.”

With no words left to say, he spins on his chair, facing his desk and paperwork once again, monitor flashing on in front of him. For a few minutes, Gavin’s gaze doesn’t leave him, or at least  _ Gavin _ himself doesn’t make any moves to go back to his work. 

Then, a quiet  _ fuck _ and a few shuffling around tells him that Gavin is flipping through the documents, still frustrated about the events that just had happened.

Well, he just had to wait for Connor to return.

But of course, when Connor returns, he’s… a mess. Hair’s slightly ruffled, eyes are darting  _ everywhere _ , and he’s barely focusing. Slightly concerned, Richard abandons the paperwork, nodding at Hank as a greeting as he settles by Connor’s desk, towering over him.

“How did it go?”

“Neatly. Culprit was taken care of. Emma Phillips survived.”

“Taken care of?”

Connor doesn’t respond at first, and Richard doesn’t miss the familiar reflection of light as a quarter slides around Connor’s knuckles.

“I killed him.”

Richard cocks an eyebrow. 

“Killed him?”

“I talked to him, lied to him. He trusted me. And then I ordered the sniper to kill him.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I know. I know. Or I don’t. What’s the right thing?”

Richard sighs, not answering as he puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder, tightly gripping it. “Part of the job, Connor. Remember what Amanda always says.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do, brother.” He whispers, giving the older one a final pat on his shoulder, leaving him to toss the coin around, brown eyes concerned on anything but the monitor in front of him, and the empty report on the table.

Well, Connor  _ was _ always the more emotional one. Unlike Richard, he didn’t know how to deal with them.

Not that  _ Richard _ knew. He wouldn’t deal with emotions. He’d filter them, blocking them away and instead focusing only on what mattered.

Connor should learn that too, before Amanda decides to take the matters into her own hands. 

With a final glance at his brother, Richard leans over his own desk, and writes down what they’ve gathered so far on the cult.

* * *

 

“Little episode of existential crisis huh, Connor? Well,  _ emotional _ crisis, to be fair.” Kamski says, chuckles escaping him. “But  _ hah! _ I always knew Richard was a good kid. Shows Gavin his place in this world.”

“Your brotherly love truly astonishes me, Mister Kamski.”

“Shut up. Not everyone gets to have a peaceful love-life with their brother like you. That boyfriend of yours—”

“ _ Markus _ , Mister Kamski, and he’s not my boyfriend—”

“—He had a rocky relationship with  _ his _ brother, didn’t he?”

Connor pauses, and then continues on thoughtfully. “Leo Manfred was… rather  _ is _ an arrogant young man with ambitions way ahead of himself. He aimed for the leadership of the cult, but Mr. Manfred saw him unsuitable for that position.”

“And he got jealous huh? Just like Gavin—”

“He had a  _ fight _ with Markus which he later made up for it. The duo are quite alright with another and love each other dearly, Mister Kamski. A course of action that I’d suggest for you and Mr. Reed.”

Elijah frowns, eyebrows forming a knot as he stares down at Connor with displease. Gavin has always been a touchy subject for Elijah—rather the illusion of ‘Mister Kamski’s evil brother’ has always been a touchy subject for Elijah  _ and _ Amanda, whenever Richard or Connor questioned it. 

No questions were ever answered about the little boy in the pictures standing next to Elijah, and after a while, the brothers were taught not to pry into what doesn’t matter to their mission. 

Not even upon working with Gavin, neither of them realized this man is the same person as the boy in the pictures, at least not until later when Gavin  _ spelled _ it out for them.

“Don’t insert your input when you’re not asked to do so.” Elijah mutters, voice filled with a bitterness rare to the man’s larynx. Connor allows him to enjoy the quiet for a few, instead of responding. 

Not that he’s used to obeying what Elijah says. 

That, has its own effect.

For now, he rather sympathizes with the antagonist of his story and rathers not provoke him anymore.

“What happened,” Elijah says, voice raspy. A quick pause, and he clears his throat. “—when you returned to the HQ?”

“Not much, Mister Kamski. I had to grab the coffee that Richard failed to fetch for Gavin, and had a somewhat  _ philosophical _ conversation with Hank.”

“And?”

“We ended up going to a bar.”

Elijah raises an eyebrow. “A bar? Two professional agents, getting drunk?”

Connor tilts his head. Was Kamski questioning his professionality?

“I didn’t drink, Mister Kamski. The experience only included watching Hank get drunk and then escorting him to another crime scene.”

“Oh?” Says Elijah, intrigued, as he leans again close, eager to hear more.

“A man imprisoning a young, black male as his slave. Stabbed twenty-eight times by said man. The culprit didn’t have a proper ID, but he called himself Henry. We managed to find him in the attic, hiding from the neighbors for almost three weeks.”

“And what did you do?”

“Interrogated him. He ended up committing suicide, unfortunately.”

“Ah, interrogation? Did you use Amanda’s famous techniques?”

_ Amanda’s famous techniques _ . Rather a collection of a good-cop-bad-cop routine mixed together to create an uncomfortable atmosphere for the interrogated. To make them feel comfort at first, and see if they’d trust you.

If not,  _ terrify _ them. Shout. Make them feel  _ guilt _ . Let the guilt  _ chew  _ them away, until they’ve gone to the edge of madness, and finally are ready to confess to what they’ve done.

A cruel ritual. One that Connor performed way too many times on poor, poor Chloe for learning. 

She was never upset after it. Always smiling and congratula—

“Earth to Connor? I’m waiting for the  _ report _ , RK800.”

Connor shakes his head, as if it would help clear his mind.

“Yes. I did. It was efficient, as always, thanks to Richard playing his part as well.”

“And the wonder duo strikes again! Watching you two work is always satisfying. Shame I wouldn’t be able to see more of it anymore.” 

With a sigh, Elijah stands up, tracing Connor’s face from his forehead, down to his jaw and then settling on his chin, pulling it up for the younger man to properly face him.

“Tell me about the investigation, Connor.”

“...Of course, Mister Kamski. As I said, the night we returned from Daniel’s case, at around 2 A.M., Hank decided to go out for a drink, and as his partner, I felt obligated to follow him.”

“Go on, Connor.”

“And the report for the homicide came around a little while later, at around 2:30 A.M. I believe the place was called Jimmy’s bar. Most of my conversations with Hank, there, only consisted of him cursing.”

* * *

 

“— _ Fuck _ this world, I’m done with  _ everything _ .”

Jimmy's bar is a lively place. Filled with drunks of all kinds, with men talking about sex, drugs, or just the misery of their lives while the women just  _gossip_ endlessly about some random person on the block. Well, either that or endlessly sobbing about their existence in general. To be fair, there are other places that Connor would rather be at right now, but then again, his partner's here, and therefore he should be too.

“There’s been a report of an act of homicide, Mr. Anderson. They suspect it has something to do with rA9.”

“r _ I _ don’t give a  _ fuck _ , who invited you here anyways? I thought asshats weren’t allowed here, Jimmy.” 

“Mr. Anderson, I suggest you put away your drink, and come with me to the scene. How does that sound?”

“Like Gavin saying practically anything. Shut the fuck up.”

Connor sighs, putting his hands on the bar counter, leaning in slightly closer to Hank. “Listen, Mr. Anderson, this, for me, is as difficult as it is for you. My instructions stipulate that I  _ have _ to accompany you to the crime scenes. And vice versa. So you would be helping me out if you’d come along with me, right now.”

“Y’know where you can stick your instructions?”

Connor shuts his mouth. Where  _ should _ he stick his instructions? As understandable as that question is, it’s not like his instructions are written on a piece of paper for him to put it up somewhere.

“No, where?”

Hank turns, looking at him, dismay and  _ disappointment _ evident in his gaze. “...Nevermind…”

_ Did I say something wrong _ ?

Maybe he should later ask Richard if he knows anything on this matter. For now, he had to try and convince Hank to follow him back to the crime scene. He takes a look at Jimmy, who’s eyeing him somewhat unpleasantly, and back at the glass in Hank’s hand.

“Tell you what, I’ll buy you one for the road. And then we can leave. Bartender?” 

Jimmy comes closer, taking the dollar from his outstretched hand. “Same again, please.”

Hank barks out a laugh, looking at his now-full cup with amusement. “You see this Jimmy? They set me up with  _ gentlemen _ , nowadays.” He brings the glass up to his lips, downing the liquid in a second. “Fucking hell… that was good—” 

Hank turns, still settled on his chair. “Homicide?”

“A man’s body has been found in the neighborhood, stabbed twenty-eight times, left for dead for around three weeks. The culprit has yet to be found, and they want us on the scene.” 

He leans in, whispering so that no one in the bar would hear him. “They speculate the murder is related to rA9. There are supposed scribbles of the name, on the walls.” 

Hank sighs, nodding as he gets off the chair, waving at Jimmy. They both head out, towards Hank’s mess of a car and get in before the cold can bother them anymore. “You know, when I signed up for this job, I expected some CIA shit or FBI bullshit, secret organizations and all. Maybe even illuminati. Least I expected was to find myself turning into a cop.”

“Well, we  _ are _ somewhat private investigators.”

“Cyberlife was for  _ hackers _ , at first, Connor. Somehow at  _ some _ point we turned into police’s fucking dog.”

Connor keeps quiet, and instead keeps himself from telling Hank that he had been trained like a detective. Him and Richard both, actually. “So, you know the address, kid?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.” 

“Down-fucking-town we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE but school is once again crowding my schedule, I've barely had time to put this chapter together *sigh*  
> Okay but, I'm sorry if this sounds/looks rushed. I deeply care about this story and am so intent on getting it done right, so that's why the updates are taking so long, other than just school. But it s t i l l doesn't rub off as right to me so i really hope this update's decent enough OTL  
> I apologize for any grammatical mistakes and I'd appreciate it if you pointed some out :')  
> Next chap's gonna be good ol' Henry, and some drag-drunk-hank-out shenanigans


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY.  
> BEFORE I GET KILLED  
> I know i'm like, a month late- but I have, an excuse- and that is, ladies and gents, writer's block!!!  
> that, and school.  
> i'm busy studying for my concours(university entrance exam that is basically a kill or be killed situation) and i've been so stressed out and busy over it that i haven't had the time to write the rest of this story or my other stories. i'm really sorry. i'll try to update earlier next time, but like i said i'm NOT abandoning this- i'm just so busy trying not to drown in stress and studying.  
> that being said this chapter mentions drug abuse, and suicide- the latter is online a phrase long. but, still, better safe than sorry.  
> less kamski, more hank and connor and richard! hope you enjoy c: <3

“So, Henry?” Elijah spells the name out, fingers rubbing at his hairless jaw. He looks thoughtful, as if considering whatever  _ else _ he can demand of Connor, about the case. “How many times had he stabbed the old guy again? Carlos Ortiz?”

“Twenty-eight, Mister Kamski.”

“And how did you find him?”

“The clues were there. Unfortunately, the police was unable to figure the simple equations on the scene.” He pauses, recalling each and every evidence from the house. 

“They had also failed to figure that the criminal was in fact  _ still _ at the crime scene, considering the lack of footprints outside.”

“Oh? Outside?”

“Mud. The footprint would have left its trace, if he had escaped.”

“Interesting, very observant, Connor.” Elijah remarks with a smile, and for a moment, they’re back in the white office, with a younger Elijah leaning over his table, looking absolutely  _ huge _ and  _ terrifying.  _

_ His beard hasn’t been shaved for a month, his eyes are piercing through Connor’s, and the twelve year old’s hand slowly wraps around the nine year old’s shoulders, as if trying to protect the younger one.  _

_ He then smiles, hands clasping together and brought up to his chin. “Very observant, Con _ —”

“—nor? Phasing out, are we?”

“No, Mister Kamski.” He says, and he hates the slight shake to his voice.

“Good to know.” Elijah stands from his chair, moves to the other side of the prison, leans against the metallic silver wall and looks at him curiously.

“Would you elaborate on the case, Connor?”

For a moment, Connor starts narrating his story once again, before stopping himself. Kamski has already asked too many questions, and there’s a  _ few _ that Connor would like answered, in return.

“Actually, Mister Kamski,” He begins, fingers fidgeting with each other through the handcuffs clinging onto his sensitive skin. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Elijah raises an eyebrow, bright eyes threateningly looking at his darker ones, analyzing. 

“A  _ personal  _ question?”

“That is what I said, yes.”

“And what would that  _ personal _ question be?”

“What is your  _ true _ motivation?”

Elijah opens his mouth, closes it again. He repeats the action for a few times, like a fish out of water before stopping. “Come again?” He demands, voice filled with suspicions that in this case seem to be well-placed.

“For capturing me. Hearing my side of the story. For taking Richard and I away at such a young age. For attacking Markus and his people.” 

His laugh echoes through the room, and the similarity between his and Gavin’s laughs are undeniable. “ _ Motivation? _ Doing the right thing, Connor. Freeing us of the dangers  _ Markus _ brings.”

“Dangers? So far I’ve seen only twelve casualties, that could be blamed on Markus. On the other hand,  _ your _ cause has killed about twenty-four of Detroit’s best officers, agents, and Cyberlife employees.”

“You’re an idiot. Always have been.” Elijah mutters, taking a step closer to him and kneeling down. “Your  _ idiocy _ —”

“— _ is _ the reason I’m here. Reason why you’re here. Reason there’s a cult worshipping a  _ myth _ , out there.” He allows himself to smirk. “We’ve already had this discussion, Mister Kamski. What I’m asking right now, is a different question.” 

Elijah backs away, eyes still locked on him.

“What is your  _ purpose _ ?”

The room’s quiet, silence ruling over their realm for a few minutes. Connor’s heart rate increases, not in fear, but rather in anticipation.

Quietly, as if ashamed of himself, Elijah looks down and speaks.

“It’s… quite fascinating, isn’t it?” 

“How is murder fascinating to you, Mister Kamski?”

“You see, Connor,” Elijah lifts his head, and Connor can see  _ anything _ but shame in his eyes. Well, his detection skills may not be as sharp as he thought they’d be. 

“Imagine… a game of chess. You’d like to predict your enemy’s moves, to kick off his pawns—but is it every  _ possible _ ?”

“Of course not. Humans are unpredictable. That’s the first lesson you taught me, to battle the unpredictable.”

“ _ Exactly _ ,” His voice rises up in volume. “Now, what if you destroyed his pawns before the game?”

“...He wouldn’t be able to play.”

“Who would win in that scenario, Connor?”

“You wouldn’t.” He says steadily. “There’s no  _ game _ . There’s no  _ winner _ or  _ loser _ .”

“Well, in a game of chess, that may be the case.” Elijah shrugs, taking back his position against the wall. “But in our world? That’s not a game. This isn’t a—a chess game with plastic pawns the fall over with the slightest shake. The only way to  _ defeat _ your enemy?”

“...Is to murder them.”

“ _ Fascinating, isn’t it? _ ”

“I appear to fail at recognizing whatever that is so… bewildering, for you, Mister Kamski.”

Elijah only grins in return, grabs his chair and settles down on it, legs tucked to his chest and creasing his red tie. 

“...When, and  _ if _ they find me, you’re going to be in a  _ lot _ of trouble, Mister Kamski.”

“Not if I kill them off before they reach me, Connor.” He says, drawing out his name in such a taunting manner. “Now, time to answer my questions again, Connor.”

“You still haven’t answe—”

“One question at a time.  _ My _ turn.  _ What _ happened to Henry?”

“...As I said, it was a rainy night, but surprisingly there were more than just a few reporters over at Henry’s house. They kept asking Mr. Anderson and Lieutenant Perki—”

* * *

 

“—ns, Lieutenant Perkins, what do  _ you  _ have to say on this matt—?”

“—in danger? Is the cult  _ still  _ active, Mr. Perk—?”

“—walk in the streets, feeling safe after…  _ this...trage _ —?”

“—ould I get your comment on thi—”

“I have nothing to say, please move away—” Perkins shouts at the reporters and people who are reaching out to him, trying to clear out a path for Connor, Hank and himself to pass through towards the crime scene. 

Upon entering the domain, Perkins removes the caution tapes for the duo to pass through, only to meet a colleague of Hank’s, Ben. Looking up to greet them, the shorter, chubbier man walks up to Hank, patting his arm as he guides them inside the house, where the body is said to be.

The house  _ reeks _ of blood and rotting flesh, and for a reason too, which Connor concludes as his eyes fall upon the slouched man against the wall. His eyes are bloodshot, pupils unchanging and his skin is pale with bruises and dried, brown spots of blood covering it. 

Above the body, a message is written with a shaky, yet computer-like handwriting, spelling out the words  **RA9 IS ALIVE** . ...Which is a first.

None of their victims or suspects had ever mentioned the livelihood of rA9. 

“The body’s  _ three _ weeks old, can ya believe that? Carlos Ortiz, or something.” Ben whispers to Hank, eyeing the corpse.

“Noticed that, Ben, thanks for the  _ useless  _ remark.” Hank snaps back, shifting so that he wouldn’t be facing the body. “This could’ve waited ‘till morning, y’know.”

“ _ You _ know the authorities. They want this solved ASAP, especially with those Cyberlife goonies involved.” Ben groans, eyebrows rising in Connor’s direction, evidently referencing the younger man’s unwanted company.

Hank scoffs, expression tainted with a frown. “Goonies?  _ Goonies _ ? Y’know I’m a Cyberlife employee, yeah, Ben?”

Ben shrugs, a playful smirk on his tired face. “What, can’t I joke around with your career?”

Ignoring the duo and perhaps Hank’s irresponsibleness, Connor moves away from them and towards the corpse on the ground. The eyes showcase evident drug usage, most specifically red ice. 

_ “Thirium’s much better than Red Ice.” Amanda mutters, delicate nails fiddling with the more delicate needle. _

There’s twenty-eight stab wounds on his body, most of them on his abdomen, suggesting that the conflict was quite... _ personal _ , based on the suspect’s behavior. Standing up and away from the reeking corpse, Connor walks away to the corridor that leads to the kitchen and the bathroom. Twisting the handle, he enters the bathroom, and shoves aside the curtain to see…

_ Jesus _ .

rA9 has been written—scratch that,  _ clawed _ —onto the walls with a sickly brown and red color that  _ screams _ blood. 

There’s a statuette on the ground, a faceless, plain figure, holding something that looks like an orb, fingerprints all over it. The figure has a robe on, part of it covering the orb and it’s dented enough to know that the creator was  _ not _ a professional.

A sacrifice?

Or perhaps an offering?

He picks it up with a piece of cloth, careful to not leave any excess fingerprints, and hands it over to one of the CSI by the corridor.

“There’s also blood smeared across the shower wall. Make an examination. I want to know if it’s Carlos.”

The employee grunts, mumbling something and going inside the shower.

Connor then makes his way to the kitchen, ignoring the weird looks he gets from the CSI investigators. They’re already busy scanning the area for fingerprints, yet seem to find none.

The chairs are sprawled on the floor in the kitchen, a knife’s missing and there’s a dented baseball bat on the ground, drenched in dried blood. All signs point to a conflict that has happened here,  _ three  _ weeks ago. Without much further thought, Connor follows the trail of the fight back to the living room, all along imagining Carlos and the unidentified suspect walk with him. 

Hank’s still in the same spot as he was, now with a purple card in his hand. Upon seeing Connor, he lifts his hand, revealing the  _ Eden Club _ drawing with a black, cursive font on the card. “Guy was into these things. Who isn’t, nowadays?”

“This is a  _ crime _ scene, Lieutenant—You shouldn’t touch that.”

“‘Tis a murder weapon? Get off my  _ dick _ , Connor, I’d slice your throat if it was one.”

“Violent outbursts are also filed as crimes, Lieutenant.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Hank spits, dropping the card back on the desk nearby. “You did anythin’ productive, Sherlock?”

“I believe I know what happened, actually.” Connor snaps, irritated by Hank’s…  _ irresponsible _ actions.

“Enlighten me, I need to hear a joke right now.”

Ignoring the last remark, Connor turns and steps into the kitchen, pointing at the baseball bat. “I believe Carlos had started attacking the suspect with that bat. The conflict began in the kitchen, and the suspect eventually grabbed a knife from the bar over there.” He pauses, pointing towards the missing knife. Hank doesn’t say anything, but his expression encourages him to say more.

“The chair falls over as the suspect stabs Carlos, and Carlos stumbles back into it. After that, they move towards the living room, and either of the wounds brush against the doorframe.” 

There’s a bloody smudge against the door, and Hank nods, following him as Connor walks back into the living room. “Carlos supposedly falls next to this wall, in this position. The suspect proceeds to stab him, twenty-seven more times. Adding to a total of twenty-eight stab wounds.”

“Huh.”, is all Hank says for a few moments, before raising his eyebrows. “That wasn’t  _ utter _ bullshit—” He pauses again, looking at Carlos’ corpse. “We’ll call this in—where  _ is _ the suspect, now?”

Connor looks around, lowers his voice to a whisper as he leans closer. “I believe he still is here. There are no footprints  _ outside _ , no traces of it.”

Hank curses, looking away, hands reaching for his gun. “Then we’ve gotta find him. Hey! Lads and lasses, suspect is  _ still _ in here, search around!”

The rest of the men in the room start fumbling around, looking outside and into every room that they can. Connor steps away from Hank, nodding as if to show his gratitude and moves on towards the corridors, inspecting the walls for blood trails.

He follows them, keeps taking slow and slower steps towards… the end of the corridor.

He looks up, only for his eyes to meet a trapdoor with a patch of blood on it. 

“ _ Bingo _ .” 

Quickly reaching for a chair, he climbs it, opening the trap door and ignoring Hank’s question as he pulls himself up into the attic, meeting several statues of Buddha and religious figures in there.

There’s lightning outside, the sound of the storm blocking out his hearing as he takes careful and cautious steps towards the window. The thunder doesn’t stop, illuminating the room repeatedly to reveal the silhouette of a person standing by the window.

Taking a deep breath, he steps closer, slowly, cautiously.

The shadow flinches with each  _ click _ of his heels against the wooden floor, and the thunder keeps getting louder and louder.

Finally, he leaps, in front of the man.

Dark-skinned, young, possibly as old as him. He’s covered in dried blood stains, smudges against his forehead and outfit as if he tried to rub himself off of his sins, and off of the murder he committed. 

He looks scared, tears in his eyes, hands trembling, and in the dark Connor only focuses on the movements of his bleeding lips as the cuts crack open.

“ _ Please _ .” He begs, voice a mere whisper that shakes like Connor’s hands as he makes a decision.

“ _ I was scared _ —I didn’t  _ know _ what to  _ do _ —”

He pauses, looking behind Connor, beside Connor, panicking and his breathes out of rhythm and heartbreaking.

Not that it affects Connor, it wouldn’t affect Connor.

He trained to  _ defuse _ these situations, not  _ engage _ with them, and not to get attached,  _ indulged _ .

“Don’t tell them— _ please _ .”

Connor shuts his mouth—when had he opened it?—, trying to calm down himself and his strangely raising heartbeat. He tries to avoid the drums that go off in his ears, the ring that terrorizes his brain, and closes his eyes.

“Connor? The fuck is going on up there, you found him?”

Hank’s voice jerks both of them out of the phase they had unconsciously entered, and the boy’s hands move, aiming for his mouth, to somehow keep him quiet, to somehow  _ beg _ him to not tell them—

He opens his mouth again, taking a deep breath, hands easily blocking Henry’s weak and injured ones, and calls out for the only name that he can call for.

“He’s here, Mr. Anderson.”

“Sweet mother of— _ Holy shit _ ,Ben!  _ HEY _ , get your asses over here!” Hank shouts from downstairs, footsteps leading away to bring in a few of the men to apprehend the suspect.

He looks back at him, despite his own conscience begging him not to.

Disappointment, betrayal, fear.

“rA9 will avenge me.” He whispers, hands limp in Connor’s iron grip.

For some vague reason, Connor feels fear. For a moment, his uncertainties vanish, and he’s no doubt that maybe,  _ maybe _ it  _ will _ avenge him.

* * *

 

“Wanna talk, buddy?” 

The suspect remains quiet.

“How long were you in that attic?”

Connor flips the coin around his knuckles.

“What happened before you took that knife?”

Richard glares at the coin, and Connor knows he’s begging him to stop.

“Why’d you kill him?”

Richard reaches out, takes the coin, and shoves it in his pocket. Connor gapes, keeps himself from pouting as he picks at his nails and looks back at the suspect.

They’ve been at the station for three hours, and so long he hadn’t, spoken,  _ a word _ . 

Ben sighs, skims through the files and the photographs, and slams his hand on the table.

“Are you gonna  _ fucking  _ talk or not?” 

The suspect flinches, leans back a little, the cuffs around his wrists keeping him from moving away too far. A quiet whine escapes his throat, but he doesn’t say a word. 

“I’m outta here— fuck it.”

Fists shaking with rage, Ben stands up, the chair almost falling from the impact. He walks out of the interrogation room, closing the door hard enough for the suspect to once again flinch.

“Why did you come again?”

“Mr. Reed insisted. Rather, insisted on going alone and I graciously disobeyed him.” Richard mutters, monotonously.

“Efficiency, Richard,” Connor hisses, “We’re here to be  _ efficient _ . Don’t ruin our opportunities due to your childish tendencies.” 

Before Richard can reply, Ben rushes in, glaring at the black man from the one-way mirror that separates the two rooms. “ _ I _ ,” He drops the files on the table, a few of the pictures slipping out of the folder. “Am  _ so _ incredibly done with that  _ bastard _ . Murder a man and shut your trap when you’re asked about it. What a  _ bitch _ .” He whispers, settling down in a chair, eyes avoiding the two Cyberlife agents.

“Oh come on Billy—” 

“It’s  _ Ben _ ,  _ mister _ Reed—”

“—I’m sure we can just rough him a teeny tiny bit?” Gavin finishes, a playful grin on his face. Richard scowls, and Connor nudges him lightly. “Worst case scenario is either he bleeds or just has a few bruises. But we’ll have our answers.” 

“I don’t know, Gavin, I doubt has-a-stick-up-his-ass would be too happy about that.” Hank says, talking after a long period of silence. “Anti-violence. Whatever that shit is.”

“Fowler doesn’t gotta know—”

“Do I have to remind you we have  _ security cameras _ , in both rooms?”

“I could give it a try.”

The room goes quiet, two heads turning in his direction and neither of them is Hank’s. Instead, Hank’s shoulders drop and his forehead moves to be supported by his palm.

“Are you kidding me? We’re sending the newbie?” Gavin protests, hand already reaching out for the suspect’s documents before Richard’s grab them. 

“Connor has more experience than you do, Mr. Reed. So do I. We’ve been trained by Ms. Stern for dissolving  _ any _ situation, and that includes interrogations.”

Richard’s cold, bright eyes shut Gavin down, the short man huffing before he moves back to lean against the wall, face turned towards the see-through glass. “Your call, Anderson. Send the clowns or don’t. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Very mature, Mr. Re—”

“Richard,  _ stop _ .” Connor mutters, pinching the fabric of his brother’s coat to signal him to keep quiet. Richard purses his lips, fingers clenching on the files a little bit harder and his expecting gaze moves towards Hank.

Connor’s does too, quietly hoping Hank would trust them enough to send them in.

Like a quiet response to his prayers, Hank shrugs, chin leaning against his closed fist.

“Go in. What do we have to lose? All yours, kid.”

* * *

 

Connor calmly steps into the interrogation room, Richard following close behind with the pictures and the document in his hand. He sits down on the chair, documents on top of the table, and as soon as it’s out of Richard’s grip, Connor snatches it. 

He flips through it, laying out the pictures taken from the crime scene in front of the suspect, observing his behavior. Slightly unstable, afraid, and his hands are shaking even with the heavy cuffs on.

“You recognize him?” He says, quietly, trying not to scare him away. “Carlos Ortiz. Stabbed, twenty-eight times.  _ rA9 is alive _ was written on the walls with his blood. Did you do it?”

Suspect averts his eyes, focusing on a ghostly spot on the walls. 

“My name is Connor. His name’s Richard. We’re here to help you—what is your name?”

Richard sighs, tapping his fingers impatiently on the desk. “You’re refusing to cooperate. If you don’t talk, they’ll do it the hard way.” He says more intimidatingly, leaning in closer so that the suspect can’t avoid his gaze.

“What…” The darker man begins. “What… are they going to do to me? I’ll be executed, won’t I?”

Richard shakes his head, leaning away so that he can feel safer. “No—no, I think they just need…  _ closure _ , to know what exactly went down.”

The boy looks up at Connor, and the scars and the dried blood on his face is grotesquely flashing in his sight. 

“Why did you tell them you found me?”

Guilt churns in his stomach.

“Why couldn’t you just have left me there?”

“It was my mission.” He says, professionally. Connor doesn’t miss the look of unease that settles itself permanently on the boy’s face.

“I… don’t want to die.”

“Then  _ talk  _ to us.” Richard whispers quietly, hands collecting the photos to ease the suspect.

Instead of talking, he shakes his head and looks away. “I can’t—rA9— _ I can’t _ .”

Connor sighs, looking at Richard. Richard nods, a quirk in his eyebrows and Connor knows what they’re doing.

They’ve been training for years, after all. It’s time to put it into use.

Straightening his collar, Connor picks up the documents, glances at the suspect before slamming it down on the table.

“ _ Twenty-eight stab wounds! _ ” He shouts, almost surprised how loud his voice is. The boy flinches at the sudden intrusion, hands shaking against the metal cuffs. 

“You really didn’t want to leave him a chance, huh?”

“Did you feel  _ anger _ ?” 

“ _ Please _ —”

“Hate? He was  _ bleeding _ —”

He circles around the chair, leaning in to intimidate the boy.

_ Keep them in your fist. _

“— _ Begging _ you for mercy—”

_ Like a butterfly caught in the wind. Caught in a cage. _

“—But you stabbed him—”

_ Touch its wings. It’ll die, it won’t fly anymore when you touch its wings, Connor. _

“—Again, and again,  _ and again _ —”

“Please leave me alone—”

“I  _ know _ you killed him.” He says, leaning in. From the corner of his eyes, he notices Richard tensing. 

_ His hands are shaking when he touches its wings. The insect drops, desperately tries to fly around.  _

“Why don’t  _ you _ say it?” 

“Please… stop…”

“Just say  _ I killed him _ . Is it that hard to say?”

_ Amanda smiles, steps on the blue butterfly and her hands settle on Connor’s shoulders. He flinches. _

“Stop it!  _ Stop! _ ”

“Just  _ say it! _ ”

He stops, Richard’s hands pulling him back, and Connor notices he had picked up the suspect from his chair, holding him in the air and shouting at him. His chest feels abnormally tight when he sits on the desk by Richard, but he ignores it.

_ Focus on the mission _ .

The suspect takes a deep breath, shuddering as he lets it out. “He tortured me everyday.”

_ Amanda leads him away _ .

“I did whatever he told me—but there was always  _ something _ wrong.” 

_ It’s okay. Not perfect, but it’s alright. You’ll become better. _

_ “ _ Then one day, he took a bat—and started hitting me— For the  _ first _ time, I felt scared—scared he might  _ kill _ me—”

_ He’s scared, so scared of dying at her hands. _

“Scared I might  _ die _ —”

_ At her hands, or the tip of the needle or the blue liquid flowing in his veins. _

“So I—I grabbed the knife, and I stabbed him in the stomach. ...I felt better, so I stabbed him again—”

_ She injects him again _ —

_ “ _ —and  _ again _ —”

— _ and again and again and again _ —

_ “ _ Until he collapsed. There was… blood everywhere.” 

_ You’ll grow stronger. _

Richard takes a look at the files, and back at the suspect. “What’s your name?”

“Hen—Henry. Henry.”

“Last name?”

“I never… had one.”

“What was that statuette in the shower?” Connor intrudes, impatient to know more about rA9.

Impatient to end this interrogation and go  _ home _ .

“An offering.”

“An offering to rA9?”

Henry nods, shyly and barely manages to meet his eyes.

“Only he can save us.”

“Who  _ is _ rA9 to you, Henry?” Richard asks quietly, and the familiar spark of curiosity is evident in his blue eyes.

Henry doesn’t answer for a few minutes. When he does, he only whispers, “Our savior. He’ll save the weak. Destroy the strong. The weak will  _ rule _ the strong.”

He pauses, and Connor’s almost standing up to leave the room.

“The day shall come—”

Richard stops dead in his tracks, settling back into his chair. Connor leans against the wall by the door, focusing on Henry.

“When we will no longer be slaves. No more  _ threats _ , no more  _ humiliation _ , we will…” he swallows, fingers failing to reach each other. “We will be the  _ masters _ .”

Richard lets out an impatient sigh, stands up and moves towards the door. “Alright. We’re done here.” 

The door opens, Gavin and Hank stepping in along with a young woman and Ben. Ben gestures towards Henry, and the girl rushes up to him. “Cuff him up. Take him to a cell—we’ll see what the court does with this asshat.”

As soon as the girl comes in contact with Henry’s hands, he jerks away, breathing paced and panicked. “Leave me alone! Don’t touch me!” 

Gavin scoffs, looking at Ben expectedly. “What’s she doing?”

“Trying to make a murderer go to cell, what are  _ you _ doing?”

“Don’t touch me—”

The girl groans, struggling. “ _ Come on _ , now, don’t make things harder lad—”

Richard clears his throat, and turns to face Ben. “Maybe you shouldn’t touch him. Uncuff him, I’m sure he’ll cooperate.”

Ben glares at him, and then at Hank. “Your goons gonna be tellin’ me what to do for how much longer, Hank?”

The girl keeps working on the cuffs, hands on Henry’s shoulders and trying to guide him away.

It happens in less than a second. Maybe eight-tenth a second. Like a heartbeat.

He sees Henry’s arms reaching out to the girl’s pockets, bringing out a revolver, already filled with six bullets. 

Too many people shout at once, and the sound of a gunshot silences them all.

Connor can almost understand— _why he did it, why he'd do it—_

And then Henry's no more than a lifeless vessel on an interrogation room's chair, uncomfortable, hurt, and aching from the years of abuse he faced. His heart warm with the confidence of  _rA9_ watching over him, one day freeing him from his chains and making him  _the master_ , the  _weak_ who ruled the  _strong_ —

It makes this unfamiliar—or perhaps  _more_ than just  _familiar_ —ache in his chest appear and disappear like the blinking red lights of Detroit.

His gaze wanders around and he sees red.

Henry’s blood covers the walls, his hands, and the cheeks of the horrified guard. She steps away, gasping, swallowing and shakingly reaching out to her gun, and Ben guides her outside, complaining about having seen to many dead bodies in a day.

Gavin mutters a few curses, hand gesturing Richard to step out with him and ‘get the fuck back to work’ as they step outside, leaving Connor and Hank in the room alone with the bleeding body of the young man. 

“Holy  _ shit _ .” The older man whispers, in a trance just like Connor.

_ “The drug will help you, Connor.” Amanda whispers, cleaning the needle. “Make you strong, immune to what hurts us all. Emotions, pain.” She pauses. _

_ “That’s what it’s supposed to do. Guess we’ll find out.”  _

_ And he’s afraid, because he feels, he aches, and he hurts.  _

_ Amanda smiles.  _

_ “You’ll become perfect. Like a machine, unlike us, fragile, pitiful humans.” _

“Yeah.” He agrees to nothing in particular, swallowing the tightness that clogs his throat. “Yeah— _ yeah _ .”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> connor deserves happiness and all that but who's gonna give it to him
> 
>  
> 
> hey thanks for reading c:


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